


Dekora Nevich

by vicisse



Category: The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: (in regards to Genya and the King), Canon Compliant, Character Study, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, anyWAY genya safin deserves the entire fucking world, might just end up making a mini series with her as the main character but uhh, we'll see
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 02:48:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17737580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vicisse/pseuds/vicisse
Summary: Genya Safin is no ordinary soldier. Beauty is her armor, and beauty is her blade.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is meant to be Chapter 25 of Tainted With Shadow, but I felt like it would detract from the main plot more than contribute or provide insight, so I just made it its own work. 
> 
> You don’t have to read TWS to read this, but Genya makes references to dialogue there instead of Shadow and Bone. Just a heads up!
> 
> \---
> 
> EDIT 04/30/19: I have since deleted Tainted With Shadow, but even without it to reference to, you get the gist.

Her first conversation with the Darkling is years ago, when she is only ten, still studying at the Academy across the lake.

She remembers weeping, her golden eyes speckled with tears because she can’t seem to do anything right. She hasn’t realized how badly she had been doing until one of her instructors speaks with the Darkling.

Genya isn’t supposed to be there, but she swallows back her sobs and presses her ear to the wooden door of the private office.

“She cannot be Corporalki. Her reach is superficial. I don’t think the girl can even be a Healer, let alone a Heartrender. It’s out of the question.”

“I see.” Genya’s eyes widen at the cool voice. _The Darkling_. He stays silent a moment, thinking. “What do you suggest, then?”

“I’ve talked with Diykov—she instructs general theory. Miss Safin cannot mold materials all that well, but it appears she is skilled at memorization, at the ratio of the particles for understanding the elements. Perhaps we missed something and the girl is actually meant to be taking Materialki-geared lessons?”

“Perhaps,” replies the Darkling, “or maybe we just ought to ask her what she thinks.”

“With all due respect, _moi soverenyi_ —”

“And with all due respect, Uchitel Khudov, I wasn’t asking.”

One long second passes, and Genya waits for the Darkling to say more when—

“Genya,” he calls. “Please come in.”

At once, Genya’s blood freezes, and she stumbles backward, wobbly on her feet. _How did he know I was here?_ She swallows back her nerves and decides she can ask later—or perhaps not at all.

Very slowly, she opens the door, tries her best to look as remorseful as possible. She finds it isn’t very hard at all, especially because she won’t have to pretend.

“I’m sorry,” she says, on the brink of tears. “I know I wasn’t supposed to be listening.”

“Miss Safin—,” starts Uchitel Khudov, clearly displeased, but the Darkling halts him with a hand.

“It’s all right,” he says. “We were talking about her after all. Her curiosity is understandable.”

To Genya’s surprise, Uchitel Khudov—the very instructor who took a hand to misbehaving children, who never failed to give stern lectures, who must always be obeyed and followed—bows his head, not at all insulted. “Of course, _moi soverenyi_.”

“Give us the room,” says the Darkling, and Genya gives a startled jump. “I would like to talk to her alone.”

Another bow of the head. “Of course, _moi soverenyi_ ,” Khudov repeats, and he relinquishes his office to the Darkling and Genya.

Genya—who cannot seem to stop shaking.

The Darkling gives her the barest of smiles, and at once, Genya is struck by his otherworldly beauty. _This is the Darkling?_ she thinks. _That can’t be right. He’s too young!_

“Genya,” he says softly, snapping her from her thoughts. She only now realizes he is reaching a hand toward her. “Come here.”

She takes his hand and immediately feels at ease, a new sense of calm surety wrapping around her like a warm blanket. 

“Oh,” she says, struck dumb from the realization. “You’re an amplifier.”

“I am.” He helps her into the chair beside him. Instead of taking back his seat, he opts to kneel in front of her. “Tell me, Genya,” he says softly. “What do you want to be?”

She blinks. “You’re asking me?”

He gives her a solemn nod. “It is your skill,” he explains. “You should decide for yourself.”

“But—” Genya clamps her mouth shut before she can stutter, wills herself to speak properly. “I don’t know what I want,” she admits. “But I guess… I guess if I had to pick, I would want to be a Corporalki?”

“Why?”

She shrugs, looks down at her feet to hide her bout of bashfulness. “I like the color of their _kefta_.”

Genya doesn’t know what she expects the Darkling to do—laugh, maybe, however unlikely—but when she peaks at him, he is nodding, wholly accepting her answer as is. She’s never had someone take her seriously before. No one ever takes her seriously.

“All right,” he says, “then before you make up your mind, can you do one thing for me?”

“Okay,” she says, without an ounce of hesitation. “What is it?”

“I want you to try something different,” he says. “Something new. Something no one else can do.”

“And that is…?”

“It’s difficult to explain, but I don’t think you’re a weak Corporalki or a weak Materialki. You’re not weak at all. You’re special.” He takes both of her hands in his. “You and I— We’re special, Genya. Unique.” Her heart jumps at that. “You can do something no other Corporalki can do, something no other Materialki can do. You’ll still need training, of course, but you have a gift that transcends Grisha orders. Will you promise to try this way first, before you make up your mind about your order?”

Genya looks into his slate gray eyes. He is pleading with her, she realizes. He sees a great deal of potential in her. He sees the talent she knows she possesses. He _sees_ her. She wants to see herself the same way.

Her nod is enthusiastic. “Of course,” she says, then quickly adds, “ _moi soverenyi_.”

“Thank you, Genya.” The Darkling studies her a moment longer before rising. “You will get a new schedule tomorrow morning,” he says. “You will also start training with Baghra.”

“Baghra?” A little bit of fear creeps into Genya’s voice. She’s heard all about Baghra from the older kids. They say she’s mean—beyond mean, even. They say she beats people with that knotted silver cane of hers.

“I know,” says the Darkling, almost apologetically, “but Baghra is a good teacher, in her own way. You will learn a great deal from her.”

“Okay,” she says, albeit a little warily. “I trust you.”

When he looks down at her, he still wears that small smile on his beautiful face. “Genya,” he says, “I have a feeling you will be one of my best soldiers.”

And she smiles her first real smile in a long time, raising her chin with pride.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning makes more sense if you read [The Tailor](https://www.scribd.com/doc/143207221/The-Tailor-by-Leigh-Bardugo), but it isn’t necessary. There’s just some details I bring back is all!

The trek takes longer than usual. Genya blames the lingering winter chill for her slow steps, refusing to believe the nervous thrum of her thoughts have anything to do with the shudder running through her, rattling her bones. Spring has only barely begun, after all, so the frost of the season passed still tips over the green grass, over the budding blossoms of the twisting wood canopy that leads her to the Little Palace.

She shudders again, pulling her wool _kefta_ more tightly around her shoulders. Perhaps she ought to have dressed better, but her good sense must have drowned somewhere in her thoughts, in the creeping sense of dread that prickle and dance on her skin like phantom touches. It is better to pretend her discomfort is for the chilly morning weather.

Genya has always been an early riser—her duty to the Queen calls her to be—but she’s especially early today as she winds her way down the dirt path and into the palace entryway, opting to take the discreet but familiar path to the Darkling’s chambers.

The _oprichniki_ stationed by outside the meeting room don’t even bat an eyelash as she marches in.

He expects her to. His beautiful face doesn’t so much as twitch in surprise. Rather, he looks grim—even worried, if Genya has to guess. She can’t help but wonder if the worry is for her or for the consequences if she fails.

It doesn’t matter. Genya rids the thought from her mind as she bows to the Darkling in greeting.

She will not fail.

“Genya,” he says, and he rises from his seat, from the pile of papers he has just been reading, to pull out a chair for her, the seat to his right. “I apologize for asking you to come so early.”

She ducks her head with practiced grace, hides the flush of her cheeks. “It’s important, _moi soverenyi_ ” is all she says.

When she raises her head, she catches his slate gray eyes studying her. It’s barely discernible, but relief floods her chest when she sees that the worry she saw earlier is genuine. _I am his soldier_ , she tells herself. _He cares for me, too_.

“It will be the last time you will ever have to endure your suffering,” he says softly. “Are your preparations complete?”

Genya purses her lips and slowly reaches into her sleeve, pulling out a small vial of her own concoction. It shines like liquid gold in the lamplight. _Dekora Nevich_. The Ornamental Blade. “It’s what I’ve been using for months,” she says, but when she speaks, her voice feels so impossibly small. Her eyes are downcast as she plucks at a fraying thread of her _kefta_.

She doesn’t feel him move closer until he’s already kneeling in front of her, tilting her chin down to face him squarely.

“Do not let them humble you,” he says, a reminder of what he had told her months ago. “You are a soldier, Genya Safin. One of my bravest, one of my best. You will see your suffering paid for a thousandfold. I promised you, didn’t I?”

Despite herself, a small laugh escapes her. “You did,” she affirms.

The barest of smiles play on his lips, but it is too thin, almost grave, speckled with worry. “I’m a man of my word,” he says. When he rises, he gently places the small vial back in her hands. “Alina and I leave to hunt her amplifier later today. It will be a few weeks, but we’ll meet again at Kribirsk. One of my _oprichniki_ will fetch you.”

A trip outside the Little Palace. Genya’s hands bunch up the skirts of her _kefta_. “Thank you, _moi soverenyi_.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” A shadow passes over his handsome face, his expression solemn. Softly, he says, “It all ends here.”

“It all ends here,” she echoes.

 

* * *

 

She reminds herself it is like armor. As Genya tailors her face, she oils her skin with _Dekora Nevich_ , allows herself to feel some pride when she remembers that the glistening gold and the sweet smell of cinnamon only serves to better hide its dangers.

The reminders are almost enough to take her mind off what she must do.

When at last, the last drop is used, Genya looks at her reflection in the glass and lifts a careful hand to her ears and neck, to decorate with the King’s jewels. Alina’s fierce words echo in her mind.

“You are worth more than all the jewels and all the gaudy gold the Crown can ever think to put together,” she says to her reflection.

And yet, she cannot help but wonder what she is worth then, if she had done all this for a place to belong.

 

* * *

 

When the familiar patter of footsteps come outside her door, Genya braces herself. She refuses to cry. She clings to her thoughts, lets them carry her through.

 _I am a doll_.

 _I am a servant_.

 _I am a pretty thing_.

She doesn’t fight him. Instead, she puts her focus into the poison he leeches from her skin, the poison that will surely kill him.

 _I am a soldier_.

 

* * *

 

She makes to slip away when he finishes with her, but in her rush, the King stirs.

“My pretty thing,” he purrs, and Genya freezes in place. He reaches a hand out beside him, to the spot she just vacated. His search comes empty, and he turns slowly, watching her with a lecherous gaze. “I’m not finished with—”

When he stops abruptly to cough into his hands, Genya finally moves again. She plucks her _kefta_ from the floor and moves further, closer to the door. It’s hard to hear his next words above the thundering sound of her heartbeat.

“You wretched witch,” he snarls, and Genya nearly flinches from the sudden shift in his tone, the venom in his voice. Then her bout of fear is broken when he begins coughing into his fist. His voice is hoarse from the fresh poison lining his mouth. “What have you done?”

Her voice is so incredibly small, but she manages, “What I had to do.”

“I’m the King,” he starts, but he coughs again, this time spitting blood on his hands. His beady eyes grow wide with horror. “Guards!” he cries, scrambling backwards into his bed sheets in terror. Too late does he realize that his voice will never be loud enough to call their attention.

“Guards!” he cries again, but it is futile. Genya’s poison makes sure of it. He turns a furious gaze to her now, eyes murderous. “I’ll see that you suffer for this crime, whore. I am a _king_. You’ll be ruined when I finish.”

For the briefest of moments, Genya quivers in fear, nearly folding in on herself, but one look at the weakened king has her collecting herself. _He can’t possibly ruin me more than he already has_.

She raises her chin. “ _Na razrusha’ya_ ,” she says in the darkness. “ _E’ya razrushost_.”

 _I am not ruined_. _I am ruination_.

 

* * *

 

At a private room in the Little Palace, Genya takes an experimental twirl in her new _kefta_ , her amber eyes fixed on her reflection in the glass. The Darkling really has kept his promise—not that she ever doubted he would.

She only wishes Alina could see.

Soon, she thinks. If everything goes well, she will be seeing her sooner rather than later. She hopes she is all right, that her words speak true.

 _I know what I’m getting into_.

For all their sakes—and especially Alina’s own—Genya hopes she does.

Then comes a knock on her door. The familiar gruff voice of the oprichniki who accompanied her earlier is telling her it is urgent that she departs soon.

“I’ll be right there,” she reassures.

She hears his footfalls drift further and further, and she knows she is alone once more. Genya takes one last glance at her reflection and holds her chin high.

 _I am Grisha_. _I belong_.


End file.
